


The Sun From Both Sides

by antumbral



Series: The Sun From Both Sides [2]
Category: Gymnastics RPF, Olympics RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Angst, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bondage, Eventual Happy Ending, Kink, Knife Play, M/M, Power Dynamics, Sensory Deprivation, Temperature Play, Threesome, complicated relationship, negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:57:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antumbral/pseuds/antumbral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole thing is just so <i>Jon</i>. </p>
<p>Justin’s pretty sure that no other man on the planet would offer to fuck your boyfriend then send him back to get your permission for it, but this is Jon fucking Horton and if he’s anything he’s ballsy. The thing is, Justin can’t even bring himself to get all that angry about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sun From Both Sides

*

_"To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides."_  
~ David Viscott

*

The whole thing is just so _Jon_. 

Justin’s pretty sure that no other man on the planet would offer to fuck your boyfriend then send him back to get your permission for it, but this is Jon fucking Horton and if he’s anything he’s ballsy. The thing is, Justin can’t even bring himself to get all that angry about it. Maybe he should get mad – it feels like a situation where rage might be appropriate – but this is real life and it doesn’t always work in the comfortable absolutes that Justin would have expected, so he feels less outraged than helpless and empty.

Because in the end, it’s not about Jon at all. It’s about Sasha, and it’s about him. 

The truth, if Justin lets himself admit it, is that it’s been this way for a while. Sasha’s actually a pretty good boyfriend: discreet, sunny, encouraging, fantastic in bed. Justin tells jokes and Sasha grins his serrated smiles. They push each other, sure, but the competition stays on the gym floor. Most days, falling in love with Sasha is good, one of the best things to ever happen to Justin. Most nights it’s even better. But every so often the cracks show. 

There are days when Sasha stays ten hours late in the gym after a meet and comes back to his hotel room in the wee morning with bone-deep bruises covering his arms and sometimes skin split and oozing from hard impacts. Usually Justin winces and shoos him into the shower, patches him up if the skin rips need bandages, but the bruises stay for weeks: a collage of blue and green and yellow across the sensitive undersides of Sasha’s biceps and forearms. It’s parallel bars, there’s nothing else that gives marks like that, but Justin’s practiced plenty on p-bars and never managed to give himself those kinds of bruises. 

On those nights, Sasha is quiet and still, reduced within himself, and sometimes he’ll curl up behind Justin and nuzzle the freckles on his neck. Maybe it’s an apology or maybe it’s a way to feel less alone; Justin’s never been quite sure which.

There are other nights when Sasha is cruel. Never violent; it’s just words – jagged remarks over dinner or while they try to pick a movie. It wouldn’t hurt so much except that they’ve known each other long enough to find sore spots, and sometimes Sasha will stick a poker-hot knife into those personal spaces and twist it without remorse, just to see Justin wince or walk away. There’s never any apology, and Justin never calls him on it, because sometimes he hurts Sasha too. There are minefields lurking behind those eyes and sometimes Justin forgets, or doesn’t find them until it’s too late and he can hear the way Sasha exhales like he just took a sucker punch to the sternum. But unlike Justin, Sasha hits with intent, opens those wounds because he _can_ , and sometimes Justin will look at him with revulsion and catch the blistered smile that says maybe revulsion is what he wanted.

So it’s not really about Jon. It’s about the way that Sasha’s been winding tighter and tighter, sharper edges and harder lines. He stays awake sometimes at night; Justin wakes up and finds him staring at the wall, absently doing bicep curls with the fifteen pounds hand weights. He pushes himself more: goes bigger on every apparatus and takes his falls with sickening thuds and grim stoicism, but outside the gym he’s quieter, which is disconcerting. Justin’s seen it – really, who hasn’t? – but he’s helpless to do anything and now Sasha’s standing here in front of him breaking and Justin feels like both the wronged party in this deal, and the worst boyfriend in the world. 

“We ended up fighting. I mean, I threw punches, he threw punches. I sort of ended up under him, and then.” Sasha toys with the hem of his t-shirt, jerking the worn neck out of shape and revealing a glimpse of his throat. “Then he said.” 

He takes a deep breath and Justin hears his teeth grind. The silence is terrifying, because Justin’s mind fills the space with wild speculations about what Jon could have done to set Sasha off this badly. When Sasha looks up, he meets Justin’s eye, level stare. “He said he’d top me if I needed it. But I have to ask you. And I thought about it, and I am.” 

The words don’t even process. Justin blinks and Sasha presses his lips together like he can’t believe he actually said it.

“You. Sasha, what are you asking?” He sounds like he’s choking his own voice.

Sasha studies the pattern of the rug and clenches his fingers in the bedspread. Justin feels like his heart is beating out of his throat. “I’m asking you,” says Sasha, and god does he sound young. “I’ve thought about it, and Jon’s not wrong. I need, I need someone else to just let me out of my head for a while. I know Jon offered, but… I’m asking you.”

“What do you want me to say?”

Sasha looks up, startled, flash of bright eyes. “Nothing, I just.” He looks down at his hands again, knotted in his lap. Justin follows his gaze, and his fingernails are digging into his skin hard enough to leave dark crescents. “Hold me down or something,” barely more than a whisper. “Just… just take the pressure off somehow. Please.”

Justin thinks about that one for a minute, not really seeing the room anymore. Sasha wants him to… to what? Tie him up? _Hurt_ him? Justin tries to imagine it and fails completely. He’s never understood why people liked that sort of thing, and he’s never even _considered_ trying it himself. But Sasha’s been rough-edged for weeks and maybe this will help, if he tries. When it comes down to it, Justin doesn’t have the heart to say no.

“I’ll try.”

Tentative half-smile, and Sasha rocks back on the bed. It occurs to Justin that he’s missing a piece of this puzzle. “You mean _now_?”

Sasha nods, and Justin swallows down the lump of panic that’s forming at the back of his tongue. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and since he said yes, Sasha’s been looking at him he’s water in a desert. There’s too much at stake here, too fast. Justin feels like he’s falling, maybe someone just ripped gravity out from under him and is expecting him to fly, but the ground is coming up awfully fast. 

“Um. Okay. Get back on the bed, I guess.” 

Sasha crawls backwards obediently and waits. 

“Um. Can you get out of your clothes?”

“Can I?”

Oh. “Do it.” 

Sasha rolls his eyes, sarcastic grin, but starts on the buttons of his shirt. Justin feels overdressed and awkward standing so far away, so he settles on the edge of the bed. This is ridiculous; they’ve been having sex for months, he’s seen Sasha in all states of undress and then some, but suddenly it’s like his tongue is too big for his mouth. 

The last buttons on the shirt fall open and Sasha looks back up. Justin kisses him. Sasha tastes like normal, just like always, and it settles something deep in Justin’s spine, reassuring in ways that Justin doesn’t want to examine closely. Instead he uses his body weight to press Sasha back to the bed. Sasha’s always been beautiful, sharp angles and fluid lines, and every time Justin sees him laid out it feels just like new. He’d love to take about half an hour just to stare, but Sasha’s breathing is shallow and fast, so Justin decides to skip the foreplay. 

He uses the unbuttoned shirt to push Sasha’s arms above his head, bunching the fabric up around his wrists and trapping him loosely. Sasha gives a sinuous little writhe beneath him, and he pops the button on Sasha’s jeans and jerks off pants and boxers at once. 

Sasha flattens his palms against the solid headboard and arranges himself with legs spread and teeth sunk hard in his lip. It’s like watching live action porn, and Justin’s seen Sasha desperate before but he’s not sure he’s seen _this_ Sasha. “Come _on_ ,” says Sasha, forceful and impatient, so Justin stops staring and tries to quash the seeds of doubt as he fumbles with his own pants.

Usually he takes his time, but it doesn’t seem worth it tonight. He works through prep quickly: one, then two fingers for lube, a few seconds for a condom before pressing inside. Sasha immediately shoves down at him, almost violent, and Justin pushes back. The rhythm’s off, completely different from what Justin’s used to. Sasha pants through a delicate sheen of sweat and uses the headboard for leverage to force himself back into Justin’s hips. 

“Please,” says Sasha, but it’s more of a command than a plea, exasperation and need chasing each other like ghosts behind his eyes. He’s frowning up at Justin, confused – no he’s _angry_ , “Justin, come on.”

“ What?”

“Just, harder or _something_.” 

If they try this any harder he’ll actually be hurting Sasha, so he ignores it. Sasha gives an inarticulate growl of fury and twists up into him, jerking his hands and trying to work his wrists free. Justin immediately backs off and pulls away, years of instinct kicking in. He’d never hold a partner against their will, he _can’t_. He knows instantly that it’s a mistake, watches as naked panic flashes across Sasha’s face, but that’s it. 

He can’t do this. There’s no pleasure in it for Justin; it makes him feel like scum, like he’s punishing Sasha and he can’t do that, Sasha’s done nothing wrong and Justin _loves_ him, for Christ’s sake. He backs away to the other edge of the bed, crouching on one knee, and Sasha sits up, finally freeing his wrists from the shirt.

They stare at each other, across a mattress that feels about a universe wide. 

Sasha cracks first and rocks forward to bury his face in his hands. Justin can see the faint trembles across his shoulders and down his spine. It’s a sickening sight, and Justin can feel the bile welling up in his throat. He’s helpless here; he’s watching Sasha break apart but there’s nothing he can do to stop it, because the truth is he’s _incapable_ of sex that rough, he can’t fight like that and come anywhere near actual pleasure. He isn’t even hard anymore, he just wants to somehow make this better, or make it so it didn’t happen at all. 

When Sasha looks back up, Justin is afraid he’ll see anger or worse, tears, but instead Sasha’s eyes are dead and flat, all walls and barriers. “I’m sorry,” he says, forced formality, then swallows and clears his throat. “I shouldn’t have asked you. I was presumptuous.” The hand that reaches past Justin to retrieve his pants is completely steady and even though Justin scrutinizes him minutely as he dresses, not a hint of emotion crosses that mercurial face. Justin has no idea what he’s feeling, and it leaves him even more vulnerable and incapable than when he watched Sasha shake earlier. 

Sasha picks up his shirt and stares down at it. He blinks twice, then looks up at Justin and the hand holding the shirt falls back to his side in a faint swish. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, and leaves without bothering to put the shirt on. 

Justin stares at the closed door of the hotel room. He failed here, missed some crucial test, ended up too compassionate or maybe not compassionate enough. That’s the barest truth of the matter: Justin has no idea what he’s done wrong. Clearly he crossed some line, didn’t find the right words, didn’t reassure Sasha or didn’t listen closely enough. Something went horribly wrong, but he doesn’t know what it could be. 

The edges of the doorframe blur and go soft, so Justin blinks until the room comes back into focus. It doesn’t help. All he can see is Sasha’s back as he walked out. 

Eventually Justin’s spine begins to ache, reminding him of how long he’s been crouching there. His whole body feels heavy, empty, full of nebulous aches and pains that have more to do with his head than his joints. The light switch might as well be miles away, so he simply flops to the side, still staring at the door, and imagines the shape of Sasha until he falls asleep. 

*

The next day is completely Sasha-free. Not even the media can find him. Jon frowns worriedly in Justin’s direction, but Justin’s blaming Jon for this right now anyway, so he ignores the concern. The Village clubs have an open bar policy, so Justin gets a little smashed before stumbling back to his room. He takes the stairs at the hotel to avoid passing by Jon’s room. He really couldn’t handle an interrogation now. 

When he gets to his room and turns on the lights, Sasha is sitting on the end of his bed. Justin might have taken four whiskey shots, but he’s pretty sure he didn’t drink anything hallucinogenic, so it probably really is Sasha, really sitting there, as stoic as the last time Justin saw him. 

He’s wearing a flimsy white t-shirt that’s about five sizes too big for him, sleeves down to his elbows, and the neck is distorted and frayed off with use. Beneath the shirt are cotton sleep pants, also about three sizes too big and cinched tightly at the waist with a draw string to prevent them from falling off Sasha’s lean hips. He looks like he might be all of five years old.

“Hello,” Justin says, and turns off the lights. His shoes land in a heap beside the bed and when he lays down Sasha presses himself along his front. Justin spoons up behind him, and wonders what version of fucked-up he must be that even though touching Sasha makes him feel like he’s about to fly apart with pent-up uncertainty, it still feels good to spoon up around him. To pull him in and curl him up and smell his skin and the faint hint of detergent in the shirt.

Sasha shivers for a moment against him then lays still. Maybe this means they aren’t completely broken. Hope feels foreign and unwelcome beneath his lungs, so Justin tries to stamp it down into as small a pocket as possible. 

“Sorry,” Sasha says. “I promise I won’t ask again.” 

In a way it’s exactly what Justin wants. If he can never repeat last night for as long as he lives, that will be just fine. He settles closer to Sasha and nuzzles in, pressing his knees up into a curve. Sasha’s chest is soft-skinned and warm beneath his palm.

It takes nearly an hour for him to realize he’s being an ass. In the end, it’s Sasha’s shoulder that does it. The way Justin’s lying, it presses into his sternum, and eventually he reaches to push Sasha into a more comfortable position for both of them. That’s when it hits him that there’s a knot in that muscle the size of the lower Mississippi. Running his hand across Sasha’s ribs, he realizes it’s not just one shoulder. Shoulders, back, stomach, thighs: every major muscle group is tense as can be. It’s not intentional – Sasha was nearly asleep before Justin started touching him – but his body is storing tension like electricity on a fur rug. For anyone else, it would just be the cause for a good massage. For Sasha, it’s dangerous. He still has the exhibition show to perform, world-class level gymnastics, and he’s always been a maniac for training. Shoulders like that are a recipe for career-ending injuries. 

Something is still very wrong, and just because Sasha is sleeping next to him, letting him touch again, doesn’t mean he’s okay. Whatever drove him to ask Justin to take control yesterday is still riding him, and it hurts to know that Sasha hasn’t let him see that desperation in his eyes, still shut down and mercurial.

Maybe Justin isn’t worthy of that kind of trust. It feels like his guts are being pulled out an inch at a time, realizing that maybe he just can’t fix this.

“What?” Sasha mumbles, half asleep, and turns his head curiously.

Justin presses his forehead against the aching stress of Sasha’s shoulder and closes his eyes. “I’ll talk to Jon tomorrow,” he whispers, because he doesn’t know whether he’d cry or scream if he heard it any louder.

Sasha goes perfectly still in his arms. Justin can almost hear him thinking, anguish rolling off his skin in waves. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and Justin presses a kiss into the nape of his neck, snuffling at the hair there.

“It’s okay. Go to sleep.”

The sky outside is lightening in the distance before Sasha does, and Justin stays up as well, wrapped around him like the strength of human bone and muscle might be enough to hold Sasha together. When his breathing finally goes soft and deep, Justin closes his eyes and rubs his nose into the hollow between Sasha’s neck and ear. It’s a while longer before he sleeps, but he keeps his eyes closed anyway, because the truth is, he’s never been so afraid of tomorrow in his life. The last thing he wants to see is the sun.

*

What do you say to the man who offered to fuck your boyfriend, if you weren’t good enough at it?

They don’t write manuals for this kind of thing. Justin puts off the conversation with Jon for as long as he possibly can. It’s not difficult, actually; Jon’s been conscripted into a full day of interviews and press junkets, so Justin only sees him in passing as he races from one appointment to another. 

Eventually Justin realizes that Jon’s busy schedule is a problem, and he promised he’d talk to Jon tonight. He owes Sasha that much. The obvious solution is to park himself and his good friend Jose Cuervo in Jon’s room, and wait for him to return. Justin applies himself diligently to this plan, and the furnishings have acquired a lovely soft glow thanks to the alcohol by the time Jon walks in. He looks a little surprised to find the place already occupied, but covers it quickly enough. If Justin didn’t know him well, he might have missed that flash of shock, and even though he knows Jon, it’s possible he’s imagining the _hope_ that appeared even more briefly, and got buried deeper. 

If he thinks too hard about Jon hoping for Sasha to come to him, they won’t get through this without bloodshed, so Justin decides to blame the alcohol and his imagination for that one, and forget about it.

Jon doesn’t seem inclined to talk. He carefully hangs up his press pass with the athlete’s tags attached, and sets about taking off his shoes. Clearly this is Justin’s inning to pitch. He doesn’t have a plan for what to say, even though he’s thought of nothing else while he waited for Jon, so he opens his mouth and trusts that whatever comes out won’t immediately lead to violence.

“He talked to me,” is what he actually says, and he’s as surprised as Jon to hear it. Jon blinks a few times, which seems like a good excuse for more tequila. Jon finishes taking off his shoes as Justin takes a sip, and slants a cautious look in Justin’s direction.

“What?”

Oh Christ, is he going to have to spell all this out? “Sasha,” Justin says, and something minute and almost imperceptible relaxes in Jon’s face, but he still stays quiet. If they’re having this conversation, clearly Justin’s going to have to do the heavy lifting. “He told me you’d offered to…” To what? Fuck him? Hurt him? The room feels frought with possibilities, wrong answers hiding in all the dark corners and ready to spring out from under the bed, so Justin falls back to Sasha’s own words: “… to top him.” 

“Did he.”

Sometimes Jon is a stubborn, rotten little monkeyfucker. This is one of those times. Justin is tempted to just say _yes_ and see where that gets them, but he also wants this over quickly, so being as stubborn as Jon isn’t gaining him anything. “He said it was something he needed.” 

This time when Jon still doesn’t say anything, Justin resolves to wait him out. He’s ripping himself apart here, working up the courage to let Sasha do this, and the least Jon can do is acknowledge that. Jon folds laundry for a while longer, and Justin begins counting backwards from one hundred in his head, just to have something to do so he doesn’t give in to the temptation to cross the room and smack Jon. 

Jon frowns at the wraps he’s rolling, then looks up, and the worry on his face settles some of the violence boiling through Justin’s blood. “He picked fights with me twice in the past week.”

It makes sense. It’s how Sasha’s been feeling lately, winding himself tighter and tighter with no release. “He gets in these moods.”

Jon bites the inside of his cheek, and it makes his face look odd and distorted. “I pinned him to the mat,” he says finally. It’s not news, it’s no more than Sasha himself had said, but it still hurts to hear it. Especially after the disaster two nights ago. Justin doesn’t really understand how that sort of thing comes naturally to Jon when it had been so foreign to Justin. If he’s honest with himself, he’s jealous. “I don’t know if you’ve ever tried it before,” Jon goes on, and Justin is _this close_ to jumping up and screaming at him, “but he gets quiet when you pin him. I think it’s a control thing. He puts so much pressure on himself that it’s a relief to let somebody else take control.”

What Jon’s saying makes sense in a boozy, academic way. Of course Sasha puts pressure on himself. The press has ridden him harder than any of the other team members – the inconsistent one, brilliant but erratic, unreliable, the second-string gymnast trying to play the big leagues. It makes sense that after that’s been asked of him, Sasha might want a way to drop all the expectations and relax. But Justin doesn’t understand why he needs to be… _controlled_ for that to happen. Normal people just take a long bath or get a foot rub, they don’t ask their boyfriend to hold them down, then withdraw even more when he’s too much of a stand-up guy to actually _hurt_ them. 

Jon is still talking. “It didn’t go any farther than that,” like it’s important for Justin to know, like it should make a difference. Does Jon want a cookie or something, for not fucking Justin’s boyfriend? “I just pinned him, that’s all. I told him if he wanted more, he’d have to have it out with you.” 

And one relationship catastrophe later, here they are. Justin can’t believe he’s about to do this, it’s like he’s watching his body from up above as he wets his lips – _pink, pink tongue_ – and tries to make himself say the words. It grates that he has to ask for this, like it’s a favor. If he had his way, Sasha wouldn’t get tense and strung out to begin with, or Justin himself would be less completely unable to do what Sasha needed. If he had his way there are about a million options he’d take before this one, but as usual the world has refused to conform to the wishes of one Justin Spring, so here he is, and Justin bites the bullet before he completely loses it.

“I thought about it. I just… I don’t think I can. I mean, I want him.” Wow, how completely inadequate. _I love him, and you can never understand that, no matter how much of an interloper you may be._ “But I can’t do that.” Defeat, concession, despair, it’s all there, and as he watches himself say it, he wishes it was less obvious in his voice.

“So what now?” He's dragging it out, because Jon can't be content with just winning, with Justin admitting he's not good enough. Jon’s always been a burn-the-ground kind of competitor.

Best to just get it over with, wave the white flag of complete inadequacy and flee with his tail between his legs. “I told him to do what he wants.” Justin wishes it were louder than a whisper, but his throat isn’t working very well right now. Maybe it disappeared, got sucked into the growing pit in his stomach.

“Justin,” and he’s actually glad Jon said it, because he probably wouldn’t have heard a word of this otherwise, “I’m not going to do this unless you’re okay with it. I mean, if he comes to me, I can turn him down, I don’t have a problem with that.” Burn the fucking ground and rub salt in the wound, that’s Jon. 

“Don’t.” His throat is working again. He’s not sure why Jon looks shocked at the word, but he’s done what he came for. Message delivered, _boyfriend_ delivered right into Jon’s hands, with his blessing. Justin doesn’t have to do more, so he doesn’t. He gets up and leaves.

In hindsight, while the Cuervo might have been the only thing that actually let him get through that conversation, he’d failed to consider the aftermath in his planning. He throws up as soon as he gets to his room, and in the dark with his forehead pressed against the cool tile of the bathroom wall, he’s pretty sure it wasn’t the alcohol’s fault. Either way, no matter. It’s just one more bitter taste.

*

The door opens in the wee hours of the morning, when it’s just late enough for Justin to taste the edge of dawn on the air, but long before any light will show in the sky. It’s Sasha.

He closes the door behind himself and crosses to the bed, then collapses into the sheets like he’s melted every bone in his body. 

“Mmhf,” he makes a contented, sleepy noise as he noses up to spoon behind Justin. He can no doubt feel the rigidity of Justin’s body, so he strokes fingernails across Justin's pecs. “Jon and –,” he begins, but Justin turns over to face him. 

“Shut up,” he says, direct order, and he’s probably never meant that phrase more in his life. Sasha blinks at him a few times in the dark, but obeys. After a few seconds of watching each other, Justin turns to put his back to Sasha again, but pulls Sasha’s arms around himself so that it doesn’t feel like an insult.

“I’m sorry,” Sasha breathes into his ear.

“Don’t ever say that again,” says Justin very distinctly into the dark. Sasha tenses for a moment behind him, then relaxes again. 

“Yes sir,” he whispers, and feathers his mouth across the ridge of Justin’s shoulder, moist through the t-shirt Justin wore to bed. Justin can almost feel the smile he knows is there. 

Sasha spoons into his body, heavy and limp as a blanket. The arm he slings across Justin’s chest is completely fluid, not a hint of stress. Jon’s managed what Justin couldn’t bring himself to do, and in the helpless flood of bitterness and resentment that overwhelms his veins, Justin also feels perversely grateful.

Because this is _his_ Sasha, the boy he fell in love with, smiling and open, curled up behind him and making snuffling dream-noises into his back. Jon gave that back to him. Maybe it’s like yanking his fingernails out one by one to think about how, but he’s the one that Sasha’s curling up to sleep with, to stay with, and he’d cross the Sahara on his knees for Sasha like this. 

Justin pulls the arm around him closer, tugs until Sasha is laying splayed on top of him like the world’s heaviest comforter, and lets himself sleep.

*

He wakes to Sasha tracing his face with one finger, looking soft and sleep-rumpled and _happy._

“Do you hate me?” Sasha asks.

“No,” Justin answers truthfully.

Sasha smiles and Justin can’t help but smile back, even as last night hangs nauseatingly over them like a bad hangover. “I know you told me not to say it…”

“Then don’t.” Then, because Sasha deserves honesty, “I just wish that I could be the one who takes care of you like that instead.”

Sasha’s eyes are serious and old in the late morning sun. “I can’t say it doesn’t mean anything, but Jon and I… it doesn’t mean this.” Careless waving fingers indicate the places where they’re casually pressed against each other, legs tangled together.

“I was jealous,” Justin admits, and Sasha opens his mouth, then ducks his head instead and nuzzles apologetically at Justin’s throat. After a moment he pulls away and runs careful fingers through Justin’s hair. 

“I can’t tell you that I won’t need this again,” he says, serious. “Not soon, but…”

Justin thinks about it. “Do me a favor,” he says, and Sasha nods instantly. “Don’t tell me.” This gets a furrowed brow and long consideration. Justin waits him out, and at last Sasha nods again, this time more tentative.

“I just don’t want to know, okay? I mean, I know intellectually and all, but. I don’t want to _know_.”

“Okay,” says Sasha simply. His fingers trace across Justin’s mouth, and Justin bites at them playfully, laughing when Sasha jerks them back and squints at him in mock anger. “I guess I asked for that.”

Justin takes a deep breath. This is the really rough part, the ‘how it’s gotta be’ part that he’s still working on actually believing. “No. Listen to me, Sasha. I told you it was okay, and I told Jon it was okay.” It grates, but he forces himself to finish. “I’m going to try really hard not to hold it against you. I might not always succeed, but I said yes, right? It’s as much my fault as it is anybody’s. No moral high ground, okay, not for any of us.”

Sasha’s face cracks to show the darkness that Justin has always suspected was there, but rarely sees unvarnished. He presses his lips together and blinks rapidly for a few seconds, then leans in and kisses Justin, hard. Justin kisses back, and after a while it turns lazy, slow. 

“Want you in me,” Sasha whispers into his mouth, so Justin fucks him close and deep, every stroke a reminder of why this is so completely worth it. 

It’s not about urgency, so they take their time. Neither of them has come yet, but Justin withdraws and stretches out beside Sasha, feathering idle fingers across his belly button. “You wanna switch?”

“Yeah okay.” Sasha always takes forever to prep him since they don’t do this often, but it all feels good and by the time Sasha slips inside him, Justin’s let the last of the jealousy and bitterness slither away. It’s easier and sweeter to just live in the moment, especially when Sasha closes very delicate teeth over his collarbone and presses deep enough inside him to force the breath out of his lungs in a soft rush. 

It might well be twenty minutes later, same slow rhythm, steady as tides, when Sasha props himself up on his elbows to look down over Justin. “Thank you,” he says simply, but there’s an ocean of emotions behind the word. 

“I want you,” Justin says, too far gone for anything but the rawest truth. “And I will do whatever that takes.”

“Thank you,” Sasha whispers again, kissing him this time, and that the last thing either of them says until after they’ve both come, after they’ve cleaned up in the shower together, where Sasha laughs and dares Justin to drop the soap. 

*

It works better than Justin had expected, actually. When they get back to the States he and Sasha trade visits to each other’s gyms just like old times, and then Disney calls about the Tour thing, which sounds like a good opportunity to spend a lot of time together and get paid for it. Jon fucking Horton is also on the Tour, but they avoid each other, and if Sasha sees him some nights, he doesn’t tell Justin.

It seems like the right decision in other respects, too. Sasha seems more open, less stressed. He’s worked routines on the Tour that should win World Championships for him if there’s any justice left in the judging, and Justin hasn’t seen him fall since the first week of practice. Paul is the only one with a similar streak, and there are good natured bets among the Tour crew as to which will break their luck and fall first. Sasha doesn’t seem concerned.

So, considering how things are working out, Justin does his best to forget about those awful days in Beijing. Better for all concerned if he does. It works, too; denial works beautifully until Sasha sits him down one night and says, “I have a request.”

“Request?” says Justin, apprehensive, because the last request Sasha had really _really_ did not go well, and he’s eager to avoid a repeat. 

A nod, and Sasha clears his throat. “I want you to watch.”

“Watch what?”

“Me. With Jon. No, I _know_ –,” because Justin tries to break in with what a stupendously bad idea that is, “I know you don’t want to know, but. Look. This is who I am. I’ve had a couple months to think about it, and this is something about me that I can’t change. I just. I guess I want you to know who I am, and that’s part of it.”

It makes sense, but that doesn’t mean it makes Justin happy. “Besides,” Sasha says, with a small, enclosed smile, “You and Jon have been growling at each other like rabid beavers or something. He’s not a bad guy, you used to be friends.”

Honestly, the _rabid beavers_ have stopped Justin’s brain cold in its tracks. “Rabid beavers? Is that like, a thing back in the Old Country?”

Sasha smacks him upside the back of the head. “I’m trying to be serious here.”

“I know. And I’m deflecting, because I understand what you’re saying, but you’re asking me to… to watch you with somebody else. I can’t even _think_ of you and him together. And besides, Jon Horton naked. Ew.”

Sasha snorts inelegantly. “You know he’s hot. In fact, who was it who told me at Nats last year that he had an ass that just wouldn’t quit?”

Justin blushes but doesn’t deny it. Horton was indeed hot in a cocky-little-bastard way, until he started messing with Sasha. “I don’t know, Sasha. I don’t think I’m a big enough person for that.” He wonders abruptly what Horton had thought of this plan. 

“You could do it,” Sasha says, quiet confidence all the way. “I think. I think it might make things easier on all of us.”

“How much have you thought about it?” Justin asks, genuinely curious. Of the three of them, he actually knows the least about what Sasha thinks of their arrangement, of playing the middleman between a lover with shortcomings and a… a Jon. He doesn’t really have the words for how Jon fits in here.

“A lot. I worry that you’re not happy like this.”

“I’m happy.” It’s not a lie.

“For now. I just… I worry.”

Strange though it may seem, Justin is reassured to know that Sasha is concerned, that he’s being careful of Justin’s feelings. “Can I have some time to think about it?” 

Sasha’s eyes widen, and Justin gets the suspicion that he hadn’t expected such a quick capitulation. “Yeah. I mean, it’s certainly nothing urgent.”

“Okay. I’ll think about it.” Sasha beams at him, which makes some of the whole pain-in-the-ass arrangement seem completely worthwhile. 

*

He must have been out of his mind. He can’t exactly blame alcohol, because he wasn’t drunk when he made the decision, or when he told Sasha yes. He wasn’t high either, unless that lady on the bus the hour before had been smoking some very _special_ cigarettes. 

No, the only person he can blame for his current predicament is himself. Which he does, without reservation. 

He’s sitting in an armchair that they dragged across from the foot of the bed, watching a blindfolded and bound Sasha shift restlessly across the creamy sheets. Jon Horton is standing beside the chair; the knots are his work.

“Christ, he’s hot like this.” Jon leans down to murmur directly into Justin’s ear, and Justin nods agreement. In addition to the blindfold, Sasha is wearing earplugs. They don’t block out sound completely, and if Jon talked in a normal tone Sasha would probably hear, but as long as they’re quiet he stays in the proverbial dark. 

Much as Justin might hate to admit it, Jon’s not wrong. Sasha looks beautiful tied up, slashes of black scarf at wrists and ankles. His hips twitch minutely as he waits. He can’t tell where they are, or even what the room looks like; Jon blindfolded him before they stepped in here. 

“What’d you have in mind for him?” Justin whispers up to Jon, who twists his mouth as he considers. 

“Ice, I think. Look, I know you only agreed to watch, but if you want to join in, let me know. I don’t want to… I want this to work, okay?”

Justin nods again, and Jon leaves his side to go rummage through the bed stand table. He pulls two plain white candles out of the drawer, along with a lighter, and what looks like one of the cafeteria’s dull-as-hell steel knives. From the cabinet beneath the drawer, he produces a bucket of ice.

The candles and lighter go on top of the bed stand, but the knife goes into the bucket of ice, and Jon brings it over to the chair to crouch down and study it.

“The knife is really dull, so I can’t hurt him. But the human mind is kind of weird, and for most people, if they know it’s a knife and think it can cut them, a cold knife feels just like a very sharp one. It’s a trick I can use.” Justin nods his understanding. It’s good that Jon seems pretty careful about safety. He’d been fanatical earlier about making sure that the knots weren’t cutting off Sasha’s circulation. 

“That should be cold enough. You wanna?” Jon proffers the knife in his direction, but Justin shakes his head again, and Jon shrugs then picks up the bucket of ice and moves it next to the bed. 

One more worried look at Justin, then Jon looks down and focuses completely on Sasha. “Hand me the knife,” he says to no one in particular, loud enough that Sasha can hear it. Justin can see the twitch of wrists, testing the ties. They don’t move, and Sasha goes still.

Jon picks the knife up out of the bucket and dries it on the sheets. “Take a deep breath, and don't move. Don't jerk into this,” he tells Sasha, before carefully drawing a line down his sternum. The response is instantaneous. Sasha’s head snaps back, neck taut, and his guttural groan goes straight to Justin’s cock. 

Another line, this time along the curve of a collarbone, and Sasha whimpers, teeth sunk deep into his lip. It’s remarkable, Justin can see how much he’s quivering even from the arm chair; he can only imagine what it must be like for Jon, standing over him and coaxing that kind of reaction. Jon is staring at Sasha, though, knife back in the ice to chill.

“I told you to let me hear you,” Jon says gently, and Sasha’s teeth release to turn the whimpering into a thin, high moan. Jon strokes a hand across his cheek, cupping his face.

“Okay,” Jon says, and the knife is back, lines across both hipbones this time, and Sasha pushes up into it, eager. Jon presses in a little more, only hard enough to leave a white trail of impression across Sasha’s skin, but the reaction is like he’s actually cutting, all stuttered breaths and heaving chest as Sasha struggles to stay still, not buck up into a knifepoint. 

“Good,” Jon says absently, chilling the knife once more. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sasha’s voice is completely wrecked, and Justin’s never been more turned on in his life. Even with Jon there, seeing Sasha like this is enough to completely scramble his synapses.

“You need more?”

“Yeah. Yeah, _please_.”

“Okay. Remember, you tell me no, this all stops.”

Jerky nod from Sasha, and Jon draws the knife slowly across the delicate skin where thighs join groin, earning a brutal groan between gritted teeth. Jon tosses the knife back in the ice bucket and grabs a candle, working fast. The little flame from the lighter melts off the tip of the candle when Jon lights it, and Justin shifts uncomfortably in his chair, reaches down to adjust himself then just leaves his hand there, cupped against his cock. The friction takes some of the edge off.

Jon takes a deep breath and checks Sasha’s face, then tips the candle over Sasha’s lower stomach, sending hot wax in a trail across his skin. 

Sasha literally screams with it, “Oh _god_. God, Jon, fuck.” His back is arched off the bed, whipcord of muscle so gorgeous Justin can barely stand it. 

Jon bends down and licks at the places where the wax has cooled on his skin, pink tongue in soft swipes to soothe the hurt. The wax comes off easily when it’s dried, and soon Sasha’s stomach is bare again. “Breathe, Sasha,” Jon says, because he hadn’t been. “Come on, let go for me.”

Another tip of the candle, this time across the hairless tops of Sasha’s thighs, and again Sasha makes a noise that’s halfway between orgasm and dying. Jon licks over his cock this time when he cleans off the wax, and Sasha presses up in tiny hopeful thrusts. 

He should be jealous, should be angry, should be sickened, maybe, but Sasha was right. Seeing this makes things easier. Jon is careful, studiously absorbed in what he’s doing, completely devoted to Sasha here. He’s not taking advantage like Justin had feared.

And Sasha. Sasha was meant for this, no question. Meant for strung-out and stunning, completely unselfconscious and almost innocent in the amount of trust he’s giving up to let Jon do this. 

Justin stands up and crosses to beside the bed, opposite side from where Jon is monitoring the candle. After the latest round of wax comes off – this time it was over Sasha’s nipples – he runs the icy knife over the ultra-sensitive skin it leaves behind, and Sasha doesn’t make a sound, just erratic breaths that sound terrifically loud when Justin concentrates on him this closely. 

“He gets like this sometimes,” Jon murmurs for Justin’s benefit. “When you push him hard enough.”

Justin nods, and Jon grins up at him. 

And that. 

Until that moment, Justin only had eyes for Sasha, but in that momentary glance he realizes that Jon is practically glowing from this. It’s not danger, or adrenaline though. Justin’s seen Jon on adrenaline highs often enough in the gym, he knows the symptoms. No, this is just _contentment_ at the deepest levels. This is Jon doing something he is very good at with a person who appreciates it, and it makes him happy enough that he practically radiates. 

“What can I do?” Justin asks, not exactly sure of his welcome. Jon and Sasha are… an entity, completely wrapped up in each other for this, and even though he loves Sasha, he’s the intruder here. 

But Jon seems pleased and takes a moment to consider. “Do you want to fuck him? I think that would work, just keep it slow, make sure he can feel you.” It’s almost unbearably arousing to hear Jon actually say it, conversation in whispers while Sasha slowly evens out his breathing beneath them. 

Justin nods his answer, and Jon passes him a tube of lube. “Don’t prep him, he’ll be fine. Just make sure there’s enough on your cock.” Justin nods. He’s done that with Sasha before, sex with very little prep, and Sasha’s always loved it, said he feels it more that way. 

Justin presses inside him in one easy stroke, and Sasha practically falls to pieces beneath him. “Fuck yes,” whispers Jon, and leans in to kiss Sasha gently. When he lifts his head, he’s startlingly close to Justin, and both of them are thinking about it: what would it do to this, to _them_ or to Sasha, if they did kiss? The moment stretches, teetering on either edge of a chasm, so fragile that it sings in Justin’s head.

It’s Jon who finally draws away, reaches back for a candle and says softly, “Be careful.”

Justin has no clue what he means, but he obeys anyway, concentrating on making it as good as he can for Sasha. All becomes clear a moment later when Jon returns with the lit candle. He takes one of Justin’s hands and shifts it to Sasha’s chest so that Justin is holding him down, and once he gets the message he leans into it more, providing real solidity for whatever insane thing Jon comes up with next. 

Jon watches the candle and when it’s ready, he tips the wax over his own hand, then before it can cool completely, down onto the base of Sasha’s cock.

Sasha comes instantly, silent as his body locks down into exquisite trembling. Justin’s helpless not to follow. Sasha looks too good beneath him, feels too good. “Oh,” he whispers, and that’s the moment Jon chooses to turn his head, and Justin kisses him. 

When he comes back down from the orgasm he’s still kissing Jon, and it’s surprising in a way. Jon’s kisses are almost tentative, none of the confidence Justin expected, and he responds by gentling, guiding a little until Jon’s right there with him. When Jon draws away he’s still practically glowing, and Justin finds himself wondering when Jon got off in this scenario. From the faint lassitude in his movements, the way he shifts a little like his cock might be sensitive, Justin’s pretty sure he came, but not sure when. 

Jon busies himself with releasing Sasha, who still isn’t moving. Justin withdraws and helps take off the hand scarves. “Is he –,” Justin asks, gesturing towards Sasha.

“Oh yeah, he’s fine. Sometimes when you get somebody far enough out of their own head, it just takes a while for them to feel stable again. Give him a few minutes.” Jon doesn’t seem concerned, and given that he’s been a maniac about safety so far, Justin feels better. 

Jon finishes by taking the blindfold off, but Sasha’s eyes are closed. He looks like he’s sleeping. Justin helps fold the scarves and Jon dumps out the bucket of ice, then Jon goes back to the bedside, but looks up, unsure.

“What?” Justin asks.

“Well, usually I’d lay down beside him to be there when he wakes up, but –.”

“It’s okay.” Justin waves him down, then crawls in on the other side of Sasha and wraps a proprietary arm across his waist. “Look, I know this is weird. But… this helped.”

Jon nods lazily, eyes slitted like a cat basking in the sun. “He was worried you’d hate him for it.”

“No.”

“Good.” Jon yawns hugely and settles down on his side, barely keeping his eyes open. “You kissed me,” he says.

Justin nods and Jon makes a low noise of agreement in his throat, like they’ve settled something, though Justin’s not sure what. Jealously flares up reflexively when Jon slips a hand under Sasha’s cheek to cup his face, but Justin stomps it down with an effort. Jon has been generous tonight, in his own way, showing Justin what he does, how what he’s doing helps.

They’ve reached some sort of balance here, and that’s worth enough to swallow some jealousy. 

“Go to sleep,” Jon says, yawning again. “He’ll be there when you wake up.”

“Will you?”

Jon’s stillness has nothing whatsoever to do with being tired. “Do you want me to leave?”

Justin takes a moment to consider the question.

“No. He’ll want to see you when he wakes up.”

“Do _you_ want me to leave? I'm gonna stay to check on him, make sure he's okay, but I can leave before morning.”

“… yes.” 

When Justin wakes up, Jon is gone.

*

Sasha wakes up all tranquil eyes and malleable limbs. He’s kind of hard to resist, and Justin doesn’t try. He tastes kind of like smoke and candle wax, or maybe it’s just Justin’s imagination.

“I felt you last night,” Sasha says.

“You knew it was me?”

Sasha laughs. Maybe it actually was a ridiculous thing to say, when Justin thinks about it. “Of course I knew.”

“Hm.”

“Where’s Jon?”

“He promised he’d see you at breakfast.”

Sasha frowns. “You chased him away.”

“He offered to go, and I wanted a chance to talk to you. I kissed him, last night.”

Sasha doesn’t pull away or frown or do any of the things Justin’s mind had been forming frantic contingency plans for when he imagined how this conversation would go. He cuddles closer and taps an index finger over Justin’s lips. “I knew it. You think he’s hot.”

“I think he takes care of you.”

“He does. You do too. I’m glad you kissed him. I should have told you it was okay beforehand.” They’re quiet for a few minutes longer, Justin dragging blunt fingernails over a spot on Sasha’s hipbone that had gotten coated in wax last night. The skin there is still oh-so-delicately pink. Justin wouldn’t see it if he didn’t know to look, but Sasha still seems sensitized there, goosebumps rising on his arms until he swats Justin’s hand away to stop tickling him.

“If he ever asks, or if you ever want to –. Without me, I mean. I won’t mind.”

Justin tugs at Sasha’s earlobe with his teeth. “I still think he’s a punk. Don’t go planning our wedding or anything. I don’t hate his guts, but –”

“You would totally wear the dress,” Sasha interrupts dreamily, which kind of stops Justin’s thought pattern completely.

“What?”

“You and Jon, if you got married. You would totally be the girl in that relationship.”

“Why you little –,” Justin snarls playfully, but Sasha suddenly flips him onto his back and ends up sitting on his stomach.

“See. Girl.” 

Sasha knows where Justin’s ticklish. It’s really not fair. He exploits the knowledge ruthlessly, glint of manic satisfaction in his eye. It’s a shadow of the Sasha he remembers, something buried and sharp still lurking, but steadier and tempered. Justin squirms until Sasha pins him more efficiently, then pretends to hyperventilate until Sasha finally lets up.

He’s still remembering how to breathe when Sasha says, “I mean it. I know Jon wants you,” which is news to Justin, “so if that’s ever something you want, I’m okay with it.”

“I want you,” and that’s the god’s honest truth. 

“You have me.” Sasha flops over on top of him and stretches out with a sleek writhe that reminds Justin of his mother’s cats. Justin strokes him accordingly.

“I know.” Sasha dozes back off on top of him, still worn out, and it’s another hour before he feels the reflexive curl of fingers that means Sasha’s awake again. 

“Don’t wanna move,” Sasha announces to no one in particular. An inelegant flail of arms keeps him on the bed when Justin pushes him over and off his chest. 

“Come on,” says Justin. “You can flirt with Jon at breakfast.”

“I do not flirt. I make conversation.” Sasha tries and fails to pull off sanctimonious. Justin tosses a t-shirt at him from the closet and he pulls it over his head. All his hair ends up sticking up on one side, and Justin decides not to tell him because it has no right to look as good as it does.

His hand is on the doorknob when Sasha’s arms come around his waist and he feels a warm forehead pressed against his spine. “Hey, are we okay?” 

“Yeah,” says Justin. “Yeah, we’re okay.”


End file.
